Melding
by RavenDove84
Summary: Genetic manipulations, the Cure is failing, Sabertooth's back, and death appears not to be permenant. Rating due to the fact that Sabertooth, Wolverine and Gambit will ultimately mean language, violence, and suggestive content. Prequel to 'Homework'
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Yes, rewriting, reposting. A prequel of sorts to 'Homework' I'm slowing this down from the original version. Essentially? This germ of an idea took root in my mind after seeing X-men Origins : Wolverine, and my poor befuddled brain needed to come up with a way for Rogue and Gambit to be together once Remy charmed his way into the continuity. The more I thought about it, the more holes I saw, and the concept grew. The ROMY however will be a long time in coming, methinks. I refuse to rush this time around. I have written their first kiss, however, and the scene appears to take place in the later-middle stages of this story.**

**I might be persuaded, with pretty, charming words, to let you see it early, if you ask real nice and private like.**

**If you read the old version of this story, look through this reposting anyway. I've changed some things around, put some more detail in, and I'm focusing (for the most part, there will be exceptions) on one viewpoint at a time.**

**Thank you muchly for your patience, and I hope you enjoy.**

**I own Marvel underwear, but regretfully, I do not own Marvel.**

Chapter One: Rogue

She hits the mat with a thud and rolls to her back. Eyes closed, she decides to focus on her breathing before attempting to gain her feet. Knowing he's going easy on her doesn't help her pride a bit. She tries to puff white, sweat dampened bangs out of her eyes and fails.

"Yer getting' soft on me, kid, thought you wanted to be a fighter." They're both barefoot, in white tanks, but he's wearing worn jeans opposed to her black sweats. It's almost become the uniform for this.

Pushing herself laboriously off the floor, the girl known as Rogue to everyone but this man shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Three times a week she dealt with his exercise program. Four times, they sparred. In spite of the humiliation, she prefers the sparring.

"Logan, we both know I can take just 'bout anyone here in a non-powered fight." Sliding into a defensive position, she eyes him warily over her fists. "Not that't matters, _she_ won't put me on a team now that I ain't got mine."

She – Storm, leader of the X-men, had stripped Rogue of her uniform when the southern girl had returned with the ability to touch. System full of the mutant-suppressant known as the Cure, it was deemed too dangerous for the powerless girl to accompany the rest of the team on missions.

Initially, Rogue had been so relieved not to have been turned away from the Institute entirely, she'd taken the exclusion in stride. In awe of her new ability to touch, it took long weeks before the decision began to grate.

"When you can put me down, you're on a team, powers or no." He begins to circle her, watching with approval when she reciprocates.

She breaks the circle first, feinting a punch to his left and landing a knee to his right ribcage before he counters, pushing her off and back before circling again. They've both lost track of how long they'd been at it, but their best conversations tended to happen while trying to bruise each other.

"Y'all's team, and unofficial." He made that promise the first time she took him by surprise.

"Regretting your choice?"

"Nope - but I still wanna help folk. Still a mutant, even if'n it ain't manifestin no-more."

It's an old discussion, the lines barely varying since the first time he agreed to teach her to land a hit without breaking her hand. Sometimes, she suspects he's trying to remind her of her own reasons for taking the Cure in the first place.

He steps to her, throwing a punch she manages to duck under while stepping into his guard. But he recovers, arms wrapping around her torso, pinning her bare arms to her sides and back to his chest in a bear hug. Both are aware that not too long ago, this move would have been impossible, bare skin touching bare skin that would have triggered her now gone mutation.

She feels rage under the surface, swelling from somewhere she can't identify and pushes it down. The scent of their sweat seems sharper, sound of their breathing more clear.

Swearing, her head jerks back to connect with his nose as she stomps harshly on his instep simultaneously. He releases her, both warily circling again. His nose stops bleeding quickly as the mutant healing factor repairs what little damage she did, and she's rubbing the back of her head with one hand.

"Damn adamantium skull hurts like hell."

He grins, almost evilly at her muttering when he replies.

"You're learning to fight dirty though."

"Wonder whoda taught me that?"

He snorts, watching for another opening in her stance.

"Popsicle treating' ya alright?"

"Right enough, we've a date tonight."

"You let me know if he steps out of line."

"So you can threaten him again?"

When she comes at him next, he grabs the fist heading in his direction, uses her momentum to flip her back to the mat. Again. She is _so_ going to be bruised in the morning.

"He started the macho crap."

Grinning up at her friend, Rogue stays where she is, eyes sparkling as she remembers her boyfriend trying to freeze his hand at their introduction. As he comes close, she uses her legs to swipe his from under him, wincing at the sound of adamantium laced bones thudding next to her on the mat.

"Where's he taking you?"

Instead of insisting she rise to resume their fight as she thought he would, Logan pulls himself to sit cross legged beside her. Calloused hands resting on his knees as he assumes a meditation position he'd long since taught her.

"Same as always, dinner and a movie in the city. I don't suggest waitin' up." She drags herself to mirror his position, stretching her back to sit perfectly straight beside him.

"Not the kind of details I want to know, kid. When are you supposed to be leavin?"

"Whenever you an' I are done." She leans forward, touching forehead to the mat, hands outstretched above her head. "Though there ain't no details to avoid knowin."

His eyebrows quirk at the lack of enthusiasm in her tone.

"What, in spite of. . .?" He doesn't have to finish the thought. She just shakes her head.

Once, her uncontrollable mutation made it impossible for her to explore the physical aspects of having a boyfriend. Rogue had assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that once she was able to touch, her boyfriend would be as curious as she as to what they'd been missing.

"We're through then, for today. You shouldn't have a black eye on a date, I don't want to deal with him thinking he has to protect you from me."

She laughs, a rich sound that forces him to smile back at her.

"That'd go over real swell. What're ya'll's plans tonight?" She asks, drifting to her feet and stretching her back, wincing in anticipation of where she'll likely hurt tomorrow.

"Got a training session with some of the newer recruits once you leave."

"Ah. So. . . A bar then?" Grinning, she ignores the light growl her friend issues before heading to the double doors with a wave.

Rogue stops by Bobby's room on her way to a shower, letting him know she's through. In spite of the teenaged boy video game session taking place inside, amidst shouts and cussing at the screen and console, he agrees to meet her in the foyer in an hour for their date.

She doesn't have the heart to tell him she'd rather join the Tekken marathon than endure another cookie-cutter, dinner-and-a-movie evening out.

As she steps under a hot spray of water to rinse off the sweat, blood, and grime from over an hour with the Wolverine in the Danger Room, she wonders as to what's gone wrong. Back before the Cure, before touch, when she swathed herself in layers for the protection of those around her, Bobby had captured her heart. No pressure, no judgments, the two of them had shared a connection from her first day at school. He'd been a warm source of welcome and acceptance at odds with cold he controlled.

Honeysuckle scented soap smells artificial and cloying for the first time since she bought it. Wrinkling her nose, Rogue returns her thoughts to her boyfriend.

It had to be love – what other emotion could it be when she felt so completely herself around him? Free, easy affection, he was the only one who could make her laugh before her morning coffee. When John left, she was the only one he confided in, how deep the hurt went. How angry he was and how conflicted he'd felt fighting his once friend on Alcatraz Island.

No, she didn't doubt that she loved Bobby, or that he loved her. It's just that. . . now able to touch and be touched, now that the one barrier that had stood between their relationship and a _normal_ teenage romance was gone, she had expected. . .

Passion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Two down. . . two more, I think, to be where I was before rewriting. Then we move forward. Whew.**

**I once had my photograph taken with both Rogue and Storm in ****Florida****. Regretfully, they seemed disinclined to be purchased or negotiating the purchase of their teamates. Sigh.**

Chapter Two: Wolverine

The Danger Room doors slide shut with a hydraulic hiss behind Marie. Logan slides his eyes shut, concentrating on slow, rhythmic breathing while he waits for his appointment to show up.

Rogue's growing up quickly since taking the Cure. He'd been surprised when she first approached him, wanting to learn how to fight. She'd taken to combat naturally, skill increasing in direct proportion to her comfort in her own skin. Though he'll never say it out loud, her earlier boast was more true than not, and Logan's personally of a mind that she could take down a number of the institute's inhabitants even with their powers.

Things have changed in the months since Alcatraz, since Jean. . . but he cuts off the thought. Not going down that road again. Bad enough his dreams continue to remind him. He focuses on what's come after instead, things have been different around the mansion.

True to her word, Ororo's been keeping the school going, somehow managing to barter, beg or bully a full staff into existence. Having no where else to be, and wanting to keep an eye on Rogue, Logan even offered to take on a few classes.

Hint of a smile on his features. In spite of several, anonymous, suggestions that he take on the Art classes, the new headmistress wisely put him in charge of basic mechanics and physical education. Phys Ed that included Danger Room sessions for both students and those who wear the black leather and x emblem.

Which was why he was waiting now. Some old student of the professor's was returning to teach – literature, he thinks – and Storm wanted to know how she'd fare as a part of the team. A telepath would be a welcome addition to the team, Cerebro nearly useless now since Jean. . .

Not thinking in that direction.

Another hiss and the doors open, bringing with them Ororo's ozone-tinged scent, and another, hauntingly familiar one.

"The Danger Room? Looks like it's changed a bit since my day, Munroe." Feminine voice, cold and clipped.

"We've updated much of the technology since you left us, Emma. This will be a formality, Logan evaluates each of our new members looking to join the X-men, but your place on the team is waiting."

Logan stands, frowning, trying to place where he picked up this scent. The blonde wearing a pin-up's version of white CEO suit isn't at all familiar.

"Don't be so sure 'Ro, I won't give the go just for old time's sake. If she ain't fit, she ain't fit."

With an internal shrug, he files the woman under a mental file folder marked 'fifteen years ago'. Wonders idly if she actually plans to fight in the six inch, white stiletto heels she's wearing.

"I assure you, I am more than –" Unsettlingly sharp blue eyes widen when she turns to face him, condescending tone dropping entirely. "You."

"Me." Most of the people he's encountered from before his memory gets fractured are either dead, or want him dead. This woman doesn't smell of anger, but shock. That's new.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Never got to thank you, or ask. . ."

"Sorry lady, but I don't know what you're talking about. But if you want a place on the team, you have to show me what you're capable of."

"The Professor had been helping Logan with some memory issues when. . ." But whatever else Ororo is saying is lost to him.

Psychic force slams into his mind, overpowering the here and now. Through the pain, he can tell she's searching for something, though he can't pinpoint what. Stryker's face is clear, as is the dead body of the woman he'd last seen before he got off Three Mile Island. There, the flash of memories pauses, the psychic energy retreats.

"So, subtlety isn't your specialty?" He comments when he can breath again, when he's certain he's in the here and now. Tomorrow's gonna be a bitch of a headache.

"You really don't remember." She stalks into the room, shaking off Storm's restraining hand as her heels click on steel floor. "The woman was my sister - and she loved you, though I can't fathom why."

From there, the battle begins in earnest.

Hours later – several beer and a bottle of 'Jack later – Logan knocks carefully on the ornate door. In spite of the alcoholic buzz, his head still smarts from the woman's psychic attacks.

"Come in."

The office has changed a lot since Ororo took over, and Logan's almost sure that he prefers the change. A veritable jungle of potted greenery adorn most of the surfaces, surround the large picture windows in place of blinds or curtains.

"Logan," The headmistress's voice is weary and tired. She shuffles files on her desk, putting away whatever she'd been working on and pulling out new documents. "Thank you for coming by tonight."

"Was passing through anyway." He drops a folder on her desk, trying not to feel guilty for giving her more work. A folder full of assessments he hadn't wanted to fill out. Assessments he knew he was most qualified to attempt.

"Save me time," she waves her hand over the folder, not moving to open it. "Tell me what they say."

"Half the people you sent me are qualified. Of them, two asked not to be part of the general roster." He lowers himself into a solid looking chair across from her desk.

"Kurt and Forge, I assume?"

"Right. Elf doesn't want to fight, and Forge thinks - I agree - he'd be more useful on call as tech support."

"Who's qualified?"

"Of the adults? Fur ball's a given, when he has time. Wings surprised me, can take care of himself better than I thought." Rough fingers touch his temple as he continues. "And you were right about Frost."

Smiling, Ororo rests her chin in a hand, elbows on the desk.

"Have you spoken to her yet?" When Logan looks away, she doesn't drop the subject. "She recognized you, from your past. Have you asked her about it yet?"

"Don't like spooks, 'Ro." When she's about to retort, he cuts her off. "Chuck was different, so was Jeanie. I'll get around to it." When his head stops hurting, maybe.

Her sigh says the subject is closed, but only for now.

"That makes five of us. I had hoped to have two teams, alternate for missions."

"There's the kids." Logan reaches for a cigar in his shirt's pocket, but stops himself. "Ice cube proved himself at Alcatraz against Pyro. Tin can's more than ready - and a third bruiser would be good for the team. Sprite's got great control, thinks quick, and managed to take out Juggernaut.. I'd trust the firecracker in the field -"

"But not with our electronics." Ororo's smile is fond.

"Just got to talk to her about that god awful jacket." He watches her laugh carefully, uncertain how she'll respond to his final suggestion. "But I'd put money on Rogue against any of them."

"Logan," All traces of humor have left, irritation clear on her perfect features. "We've discussed this. I will not put her in danger without use of her powers."

"Being a hero's about more than super-powers." A pause. "And there's rumors the cure's failin."

"Unfounded rumors. This discussion is closed." Long fingers tap against the files he'd given her. "Nine of us, two teams of four and one in reserve. Thank you Logan, you may go."

He accepts the dismissal, more because the conversation is aggravating his headache than agreeing with her. As far as he was concerned, Rogue was ready, with or without her powers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Unless someone can present me with math to the contrary, I'm putting about 12-13 years between X-men Origins and the first X-men movie, and about 15 years between Remy and Marie's ages. Why? Jean.**

**Time for my convoluted math. In Origins, Scott appears to be about seventeen, and I'm guessing Jean's about a year within his age. On average, Jean would have graduated high school at eighteen and received her doctorate at twenty-five. However, I'm guessing that the running around saving the world being an x-man gig would have her missing a semester here or there. Let's say she gets her doctorate at twenty-seven, and is therefore twenty-eight during the first movie. That gives us twelve years.**

**Now, Remy looks to be in his early twenties during Origins – I'm putting him at twenty-two. This makes him thirty-four during the whole Ellis Island fiasco. I'm going to be generous and place Rogue at seventeen during the first movie, eighteen during the second, and nineteen when she takes the Cure. This story begins a few months after that decision and Alcatraz. **

**If that much of an age difference between a romantic pair at all upsets or disturbs you, stop reading now. No, they aren't hooking up for some time yet, but it is the eventual intent of this story. By then, Rogue will be about twenty and Gambit thirty-six. I'm hoping that I can justify a lot of this through story telling, and personally, after the age of consent I think age just becomes a number. **

**If I owned Marvel, this convoluted math wouldn't have been necessary.**

Chapter Three: Gambit

It's a dingy, dirty, dark little bar off Bourbon Street. The kind of place that tourists never even see, let alone learn to avoid. The kind of place where bouncers don't bother checking for ID because even the most dim witted muscled no-neck knows this type of clientele will offer a fake. Everybody doesn't know your name, but they damn well know your line of business.

Neutral territory by mutual agreement. No one's ever checked for weapons, but fights are rare when everyone's uncertain just how far the other guy will go. A potential for violence hangs in the air as thick as the smoke no amount of city ordinances will quell.

A well dressed man lights a cigarette at the bar, eyeing the patrons carefully before gesturing for the bartender to refill his glass. The regulars here leave him alone, familiar with his presence, they seek him out only when they need his services. He should feel at ease - or as at ease as he can be when violating exile.

But tonight, something's off. Someone's watching him, and for a man who's mutant abilities include heightened spatial awareness, not being able to pinpoint who is infuriating.

He's supposed to meet a contact, secure the details of a potentially lucrative contract. Instead, the sensation of being watched - of being followed, makes him consider scrapping the meet entirely. It doesn't have the feel of a guild trap, but the flavour's similar. An ace of spades flips absently through the fingers of his free hand as he tries to place the familiarity of the vague wrongness.

"Hey gumbo,"

The voice finally puts the pieces together, but by then he knows it's a little late.

"Bossman has an offer.."

Merde.

The ace of spades glows an eerie magenta.

"Whatever it is, homme, I ain' intrested."

The other man thunks a thick metallic disk on the bar. Larger than coin, but similar in appearance.

Guild token. His contact.

Dieu. Night was getting better and better by the minute. Exiled or not, he was still a member, and that pretty little disk of battered gold means he's obliged to at least listen to the shaggy beast of a man before him. Pulling the charge out from the card, Remy Lebeau tilts his head.

"Say your piece, kitty-cat."

Later, once safely back to the hotel room he's been calling home for the last three days, Remy finally breathes easier. His few belongings are stuffed quickly into a duffle bag. No way in hell he's staying when that asshole knows where he is. Time to move on to another city, somewhere a little less obvious.

The kitty-cat's offer was more messed up than the military mess that first brought the man into his life. Two years of hell before he finally managed to extricate himself from _that_. A dozen years later, but he's not making that mistake again. Sure, this time he was to be on the paid side of the endeavor, but it still isn't the type of scene he wants a part of.

Remy stops before leaving the room. Yes, escape was in order. Yes, the offer was to be refused. But maybe, just maybe, before he runs, he should do a little research. Discover just exactly where he'll run to.

Once upon a time a man promised to kill the sonofabitch who'd just tracked him down. Sure, it's been over five years since he saw the man, but right now? Metal claws sound like a damn good insurance police against Mr. Feral.

Precisely twenty-seven minutes later, Remy frowns at the laptop. His search yielded results, and while he doesn't doubt the authenticity of the site he still can't believe what he's reading.

"Jesu -who's soft enough in de head to put you 'round chil'ren?"

In the years since Logan first exploded into his life, Remy's never had to actively hunt the man down. They'd cross paths – usually while on a job – throw back a drink – or ten – and go their separate ways. A school is the last place he expected.

Thirty minutes after that, and Remy decides hacking into Xavier's computers is more difficult than a school has any right to be. Hacking in to find useful information on the place without leaving a trail is nearly impossible. Which means something worth knowing is being hidden.

The school had a high mortality rate, if the three names on the memorial page were any indication. Senior staff members and no listing of how they died. Frowning, he starts a separate search for Jean Grey, Scott Summers and Charles Xavier, almost certain that he's heard the names before. That kind of death toll was something he could expect wherever Logan was setting up shop.

But it doesn't feel right, some missing piece he can't put his finger on quite yet. Logan as a teacher is twilight-zone enough, but something. . .

"What kinda school you running here?"

Beyond the official school related documents, Remy digs into more interesting files. When children have access to computers, mistakes in security are made. Through the personal and networking pages of the children, he's able to sneak electronically into the main files.

His unease with the photographs of the German-born teacher was correct. Mr. Wagner, philosophy and ethics teacher, was blue. A mutant.

Most of the staff were mutants. Dieu, the mutant ambassador to the United Nations is listed as a frequent guest speaker and medic. All the students are mutants.

It was brilliant, really. Hiding a mutant school underneath the premise of a private academy for the gifted. He can't help grinning at the wordplay there. Someone must have thought themselves clever.

Aside from the official school photograph of Logan - in which the old man looks familiarly surly and displeased - Remy finds a cache of private photos of the man. Digital proof he could smile. All of them attached to one student's account.

Brow furrowed in concentration, he opens both her personal and school files, staring first at the photograph. He can't blame his sometimes-friend for being captured by her. A fire in her green eyes would bring any man to her orbit. Ten years younger and he'd happily chase her for a week or two.

Eyes moving instead to the short bio, and Remy's frowning.

"Unable to touch? Chere, that's not a fate any need be takin wit'out a fight."

A challenge like that? Make it five years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Ah, the first of my exceptions. These are characters who's heads I don't want to delve too deeply into, either because I'm not terribly familiar with them, or because I really don't want to spend time in that particular psyche. Yet, these characters possess information that is important for storytelling. Hence, short scenes from several perspectives in one chapter. **

**Curiously, Emma Frost was to be included in this. She had other ideas and began to whisper at me. Currently, she sits to my left chatting happily with a certain blonde from Homework. ::cringes:: Both are being amazingly patient while I slog through other information before giving into their demands, which I am not saying under duress **_**whatsoever**_**.**

**I own an iron on X-emblem patch that I safety pin to my clothing often, much to the chagrin of the company I keep. Regretfully, this grants me neither membership nor ownership. **

Chapter Four: Miscellaneous

A watcher would find it peculiar that the woman moves so precisely through her own home. Hair tucked neat and prim into a silver bun, her movements are sharp and light as she prepares a pot of tea.

A clever observer would note that the blind woman no doubt keeps a system to make her routines simple without the use of sight. She hums quietly to herself while arranging a platter of cookies, worn hands placing each carefully, arranged by type.

A stalker, however, would wonder why the old woman who for three years has not had a guest, not allowed a single, well-wishing neighbor enter the house, is laying place settings for two on the kitchen table.

There is no disturbance of air, no sound, no signal when the woman stops her preparations. She turns to the doorway, clicking her tongue.

"You're late."

The woman who enters the kitchen raises a perfect, black eyebrow as she crosses the room to stand before the first.

"I wasn't aware of an appointment."

"Even so." Another tongue click and the elder busies herself with the teapot, bringing it to the table. "I expected you this morning, not this afternoon. Sit."

"Travel is difficult when I'm limited to one face." Black hair shining, she pours tea for both of them, returning the pot to it's exact position. "The child nearly died, more than once."

"As did you, love. The protector we chose prevented the child's death." A sip of tea before adding, "As I predicted."

Mute agreement while the blank haired woman selects a cookie.

"It is good to have you home. I missed you." Sullen silence. "What bothers you so?"

"You could have warned me of what I'd risk, what I lost in this mission!"

"Is that all?"

"I'm _cured_, Irene."

"In that case, you might want to turn on the radio."

*

The blackness is so thick, she can't tell if her eyes are opened or closed. She doesn't bother trying to tug her wrists free from their restraints, doesn't bother trying to calculate how long she's been bound. She stopped trying to recall her own name a long time ago.

For too long, existence has revolved around periods of dark and periods of light. The dark was preferable, in spite of its disorienting completeness. Light meant the room with the perverted medical equipment, the tests and the man in the shadows directing it all. Light meant pain.

More terrifying than the dark or the light, the pain or the dull throbbing in between is the silence. For the first time since her mutation surfaced, the woman is experiencing complete and total mental silence. Her own voice, her own thoughts the only ones at her command.

She's afraid to sleep, afraid to lose consciousness because when she wakes she's that much closer to returning to the light and the needles and the pain. Each time she prepares herself, tells her self it cannot get worse, that she can build immunity to the procedures as they repeat. Each time she's proven wrong, each time is new and unfamiliar and terrifying.

A tug at her mind, and she sobs. Another terror, another experiment on the abilities she once commanded. A cruel test at the limits of the powers now controlled by a hunk of metal that chafes around her neck. Again the tug, weaker and then stronger. Tears leaving painful, salt encrusted trails down her face, she gives in, sends a tendril of her own thought along the thread.

The mind she encounters is not the shadowy architect of this horror. Instead, it is a mind only grasping the edges of alertness. A mind swimming to the surface after too much time unconscious. A mind so familiar that the woman knows his name even when she can't remember her own.

"Scott?"

*

Long black hair caught in a thick braid down his back, the man frowns at the computer equipment in front of him. The hardware that makes up the X-men's gadgetry is his specialty, not the software that's beeping at him in warning. Still, he understands enough of the system he cobbled together for the school to know there's an infiltration.

It's not rare for some hacker to attempt to infiltrate the combined system of the school and Xavier's financials, no matter that the man was now gone. Deeper, hidden underneath the official records are the Cerebro files, last updated before the beginning of the school year. Also, the reason security to anything attached to the Institute was under the type of firewall and hybrid software security to present an irresistible challenge to the best of the best in the world of cyber traffic.

The man known as Forge taps a heartbeat rhythm against a curiously metallic thigh while he traces the path of the cyber intruder. While attempts on the network were common, this is the first time since he joined the team that he's seen such success. Still, nothing is being stolen, no files copied or transferred. The financials aren't even investigated.

Instead, it appears to be a systematic search for information. His attempt to trace the intruder's connection results in a scattered spread of locations nearly across the globe. As though aware of the attempt, the search ends, information in one file altered before the connection is broken.

The headmistress's school profile.

Forge activates an intercom to her office, unable to keep curiosity from overwhelming his concern when he explains the situation.

"Storm? Bring up your profile page, would you?"

A soft chuckle on the other end tells him when she's done so, and he waits for an explanation. When none appears to be forthcoming, he asks directly.

"Have you any idea what this might be?"

"I believe it means an old friend is checking in on me. Correct the security breach, and return the page to its original state."

"Storm, I don't think you're taking this seriously. Whoever this was managed to get into Cerebro. Managed to be in our system for hours before I caught it."

"Do not concern yourself, Forge. He means no harm, I am certain." With that, the other line goes silent.

Even more confused by her cryptic answers, he stares at the page in front of him. Where a short bio and photo of the dark skinned, white haired woman once rested, an entirely different image now mocks him.

An ace of spades pierced through by a bolt of lightening.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Not every breakup needs a bad guy. Sometimes, things just end when they need to end. Don't really have anything clever to say.**

**Don't own Marvel, a fact which makes me lose sleep in longing several nights a month.**

Chapter 5: Iceman

Bobby contemplates his coffee, waiting for Rogue to return from the ladies room before they decide on a movie to see. Dinner had been . . . well, awkward, like usual. At least when they see a movie, there's supposed to be long periods of silence while they pay attention to the screen. Those same long silences are uncomfortable under other circumstances.

Like any time they spend time together.

Sighing, he glances toward the corridor she disappeared to. Her after-meal cappuccino is cooling on her side of the table.

He wants to blame the dissonance in their relationship on her taking the Cure, but knows that isn't fair. They've both changed since the events of last fall, both grown and adapted. Sometimes it just feels like they've grown apart instead of together.

"Figured out what movie we're seein?" She slides into her seat with a flash of bare thigh. Ever since touch became an option, she's been dressing to show more skin, short skirts and bare arms.

"Think we've already seen most of what's showing right now." A sip of coffee as he watches her over his mug.

Bare fingers trace the rim of her mug and she avoids his eyes.

"We could go for a walk in the park instead."

"It's getting kinda late, might not be particularly safe." He shakes his head, surprised when she makes an impatient sound.

"'Least once a week you dress in leather and go rescue some poor kid with no where else to go. Or go fight armed bigots in defense o'folk like us. An' ya'll are tryin' t'tell me walkin in a park's too dangerous for ya?" Rolling of her eyes, flip of her hair. "Cause drug dealer's an' th'like are oh-so-scary compared t'th'Wolverine in th'Danger Room."

He grins, conceding her point.

"Park it is."

Another silence looms between them as he pays. She shrugs into a jacket against early spring chill, and they move onto the street, arm in arm. Aiming for the park, he can't think of anything to say.

"Ever feel like we're just markin' time?"

Her voice is surprising after so long in quiet, and Bobby glances at her beside him. She's looking away, hair falling in front of her face so he can't read her expression.

"What do you mean?"

She makes an impatient huff. The type of sound he recognizes to mean she's struggling to find the words to say what she's thinking.

"This date stuff doesn't really work, does it? I mean. . ." She stops walking, pulling her arm from his and turns her face to search his eyes. "I can't be th'only one here who's feelin like somethin's off."

He won't deny it, but doesn't feel as though he can admit it either. Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, he shrugs.

"I don't know how to fix it, Rogue." He breaks from her gaze, focusing on his shoes. "I like spending time with you."

"Yeah, when we're studyin', or goofin' off or. . . or any number'a things." Her hand rests on his shoulder, soft. "But when we try ta do the date thing. . ."

"We just need to work on being a couple a little more." He's been telling himself that for months. So far, it hasn't worked.

He catches the movement of her shaking her head, hair flying with the motion.

"We shouldn't haveta. Not at feelin' like we're together." She pushes hair from her face, eyes sad, but resigned.

Another silence between them, but contemplative rather than uncomfortable. They resume walking, entering the park with a few feet of distance between. Finally, Bobby chuckles.

"You know, I always thought when we ended that it'd because someone came between us."

The tension between them evaporates. Something very definite has changed and there's a comfort that hasn't existed in a long time. Rogue grins, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

"I thought it would be Kitty."

Bobby trips over his own foot, regaining his balance and staring at her bewildered.

"Kitty? She's what – twelve?"

Rogue snorts, rolling her eyes.

"She's only a year younger'n we are, an' you know it."

"She's like a little sister." Sly, sideways glance in her direction. "'Sides, she's waiting on Poitr to get the courage to ask her out."

"She should just ask him herownself." She strides to a bench, patting the space beside her as she sits. A moment before he speaks up.

"I was figuring on Logan." This time she pushes him, hard. He overbalances and almost falls off of the bench.

"Oh ick, Bobby. That's just beyond wrong."

"What?" Grinning, keeping distance between incase she decides to punch him again. "Gonna deny that you had a crush on him when you both first showed up?"

"Maybe a little." Her arms cross again. "How many times has he saved my life? He's like that cool older brother who lets you hang out with all his college friends when you're in middle school. Makes ya feel like an' equal even if y'ain't."

Silence again, but it's a cheerful one. Bobby traces frosty patterns on the wooden bench.

"Would be easier to explain if there was a bad guy in this."

An undignified snort beside him.

"Because the guy who took up with an untouchable girl does anything the easy way." Soft chuckle before she adds, "We can always make up a story for the rumor mill."

"Oh?" Eyebrows raised, arms slung over the back of the bench, he studies her, mock seriousness all over his face. "And what kind of story would satisfy the gossip hungry folk back home?"

She stands before him, hand on her hip, head tilted with a grin twisting her lips.

"Well obviously, I got tired of you putting me down for taking the easy way out and getting cured – even though you can't keep your male-hormone-driven hands off my now touchable body."

"Or," He counters, standing and crossing his arms. Not quite able to keep his tone serious. "I got tired of fending off _you_ now that you're all touchable." When she punches his shoulder again, he laughs, adding a final thought. "And you're abusive."

The tussle that ensues has both tickling more than hitting, laughing with an ease that hasn't been present for too long. Finally, panting, they part, smiling. Rogue tries to smooth her hair, out of breath.

"So this is it, then?" Bobby asks, as they head back towards where they parked the car.

"Reckon so. Think it's been a long time comin, Bobby." She chews her bottom lip, not looking at him before she asks, "Think we can still be friends?"

He doesn't hesitate, doesn't have to think about the question. Arm wrapping around her shoulders, he inserts a promise into his words.

"Best friends, Rogue."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** **Emma would like it to be known that she's not through yet. **

**Real world is making some demands on my time, so updates will be, as you've no doubt noticed, a bit more spaced out. I am still working on these fics, I just don't have eight hours a day to write multiple chapters at a time. Whee.**

**To those who continue to read and review this woefully neglected story, my thanks and my love. Your comments encourage me not to give up on this idea.**

**If you honestly believe I have any sort of ownership rights over these characters, I would like to talk to you about this pretty bridge for sale. . . **

It's been years since she left this place, and in spite of all the changes, memories assail her at every turn. Storm probably thought she was being kind, giving her the same rooms she occupied back then. Furnishings had changed, but the cold white and ice blue colour scheme remained. Xavier never gave up the idea that she would one day return.

Wry twist of frost tinted lips; he probably never expected the circumstances that finally did bring her back.

Refusing to concentrate on the damaged sixteen year old who once moved into this room, Emma leaves unpacking until tomorrow. The hallway, however, offers another bombardment of memories. Three doors up on the left, once Jean's room, now empty. How many times had the two girls spent the night, after lights-out, holding psychic conversations? Astral plane girl talk?

Not empty, really. Uninhabited. An undisturbed shrine to the couple who made it their own. The couple who were the reason for her departure so long ago. The couple whose deaths, along with their mentor, brought her back.

Sound of a door somewhere behind her. Blinking, she gives herself a mental push out of the past in time to hear her name.

"Miss Frost!"

A warm smile to greet an old friend by time she turns. An embrace when he reaches her.

"Refreshing to see a familiar face, Dr. McCoy."

"Even if it is furry?" His smile reveals sharp canines, and Emma pats his arm softly.

"Especially then, Hank." They fall into step together, heading away from the sleeping corridors and towards the main floor. "How long have you been back?"

"This time? Only a few hours. I depart in a week." Another tooth baring grin. "If, however, you're inquiring not to the length of my current stay, but as to how long I've been keeping rooms here again. . . about a year."

"You do talk the prettiest circles around a question, old friend."

"A skill only enhanced by my recent political endeavors, I'm sure."

A shriek sounds ahead of them, followed quickly by laughter and rapid footsteps on hardwood floors. Both adults smile.

"While the faces of the Institute may change with passing years, I dare say the sounds will ever be the same."

Emma arches an eyebrow to her friend.

"As will the student dramas. No matter the politics outside of this place, teenage angst will follow the same pattern."

Eyes shining with mischief, Hank's grin is predatory.

"Adolescent drama is only the beginning of our dear Alma Mater's soap opera-esque tendencies." A vague gesture to her blonde head, "As you've undoubtedly already picked up."

"The edges, perhaps, but nothing solid as of yet."

"You didn't used to hesitate utilizing your gifts to learn the personal details of your surroundings." Contemplative, sideways glance to her. She catches his barely restrained enthusiasm.

"And miss out on your introduction to the key players? Not a chance, blue."

"Are you insinuating, Miss Frost, that I would debase the confidences my friends place in me with so much prattling heresy?" His tone holds the proper amount of ruffled pride and disturbed insult, but Emma can see the stories lining up behind his eyes, eager for verbal release.

"Hank," she links her arm through his, fingers tangling in soft, blue fur. "I'm insinuating nothing, but speaking plain what I know. You're an incurable gossip. Do share."

By time the two reach the staff room, Emma is up to speed on at least the highlights of the past year. Which allows her to identify the strangers in the room.

The strange, blue man who keeps to the shadows in a corner is Kurt Wagner. Through an uncomfortable filter of thoughts that run in a different language, she is able to pick up that he is returning to the Institute to repay the professor's past kindness. In keeping with what Hank told her about the deeply religious man.

A quiet, Cheyenne man hovers close to Ororo. His mind tastes of metal and electricity, his mental shields strong enough to only allow her the most casual of glances into his mind. Forge then, the mechanical genius with an apparent romantic interest in her old classmate.

Emma narrows her eyes when she comes to the last member in the room – Logan. Not a stranger, not exactly. He has no mental shields that she can detect, only a burning pool of rage that hovers close to the surface of his thoughts. Hours ago in the Danger Room she learnt he didn't recognize her, didn't know her sister's name. Step sister Kayla may have been, but more family than any blood kin.

At some point, she'll take the time to examine what he does remember. Any inkling of her sister's fate, any detail she can possibly dig from his shattered mind that led to Kayla's demise would serve to allow her to avenge that death.

For now, her attention is pulled to the television that has captured the interest of all staff members.

"Last summer, Worthington Pharmaceuticals made headlines world wide, first with the release of their mutant-suppressant known as the 'Cure', and again when the Brotherhood of Mutants attacked their main laboratory on Alcatraz Island." The reporter is a pretty brunette – and Emma frowns. She knows some of what happened last summer, the events that led her to return.

"This summer it appears the company is once again in the spotlight as reports of that selfsame drug failing flood the FDA. After further research, Worthington Pharmaceuticals announced today what anecdotal reports have been asserting all along – the effects of their so called 'Cure' is temporary."

Emma is the first to turn to the doorway only due to the broadcasting mind standing in it. The broadcast no longer as interesting as this reaction to it. No doubts the girl with dual colored hair heard the news report. She reaches mentally towards the girl, trying to decipher why the news is hitting her so hard.

_Temporary._

The word a shocked mantra before she's forcibly expelled from the mind. Mental shields, frightening in intensity, jolt into place. The boy rests a hand on her shoulder, question on his lips, but is shrugged off as violently as her own mental touch had been.

"Rogue, it's not magically gone already, we've been skin to skin all night, don't –"

"_Don't touch me,"_ The growling tone is no doubt picked up from the Canadian on the other side of the room.

She leaves, the boy making a move to follow.

"Don't, ice-cube." Logan doesn't move, but his voice is enough to stop the younger mutant. "She needs a few moments alone right now. Process the intel."

Emma wishes she'd seen the first act of this play. She's missing something important here, but even her psychic abilities can't sift through the turmoil on top of everyone's thoughts to gather a clear picture.

Logan turns instead to Ororo, gaze sharp and angry.

"Unfounded rumours huh?" He cracks his knuckles with a metallic crunch of a sound. "She's on my team 'Ro, no arguments."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Er. Uh. Hi?**

***sighs* Yeah. I've been gone a long time. School is. . . well, school is school and leaves little time for anything that isn't school. Honestly folks, it's study-work-classes-work-study-cry about chemistry-study. Which uh. . . let's not tell my mother I've been working on this this morning instead of working on the previously mentioned chemistry. Cause. . . yeah, chem's due on Thursday. Hmm. Should get on that. **

**So this is me, saying I'm not dead. This story is not dead. If, however, you believe I have anysort of ownership rights? You might be. **

Chapter Seven: Rogue

_Sickening familiar crunch of bone breaking somewhere behind. Someone in front – someone wearing the wrong uniform, and it's explosions and bullets and the high pitched, once terrifying whistle of bombs from above. There is no now, no here, only movement._

_Lunge forward – towards the wrong uniform, bearing him to the ground. A growl from behind redirects attention and she – no, he – he turns to see the loping form of the one constant in his life. Averts his eyes from the scene – unnecessarily cruel, unnecessarily bloody, even for war time._

_There's no time to make judgments, no time to stop the other, no time to care, because the one beneath is unconscious, and there's another coming in from his blind spot, there's only time to – _

A shout somewhere between sleeping and waking, a thud and a groan. Slowly, hesitatingly, Rogue opens her eyes, catalogues her position on the floor, sheets and blankets a twisted, confining mess between her body and the bed she so recently vacated. Staring at the ceiling, wooden floor hard against her back, she falls into a practice she's abandoned for months.

_I'm Marie, I'm Rogue. I attend mutant high, and I am not a soldier in whatever the hell war that was. I'm Marie, I'm Rogue, I'm in Westchester, New York. I'm Marie –_

Mostly abandoned, anyway. Since the Cure the nightmares had dropped off, she didn't wake needing to remind herself of who she was. A few weeks ago when the nightmares of battles she was much too young to have experienced had begun seeping back in, she had shrugged it off. Echoes of things she once knew, nothing to worry about.

Now?

Brushing hair out of her eyes, Rogue removes herself from the trappings of her bedclothes, leaving the green and yellow linens in a heap on the floor. Red on black LEDS of her alarm clock read 3:17 am. It's still dark outside.

She'd tried to go to sleep after returning from the Break Up Date and hearing that newscast. Locked herself in her room and tried desperately to deny what she'd heard. Tried to tell herself the chill that'd been following her all evening was a result of Bobby's lack of control, not something else.

Eventually the denial was over come by sleep. Sleep that was disturbed by nightmares not her own.

3:22 am.

Temporary. She should have anticipated it.

When Logan first started training her, the first fights left her bruised and sore well into the next day. Abrasions and matt-burn. Biting her lip, she tries to remember the last time a sparring session with her mentor left a mark on her body.

3:27 am.

In an hour her alarm will go off, and she'll dress. Dress and stretch and set her ipod before her morning run along the property's perimeter. A cool down and then into the gym for strength training followed by either fighting forms or yoga before a shower. A normal day, except. . .

Temporary.

Face in her hands, elbows on her knees as she sits on the edge of her rumpled bed, Rogue knows she should have expected the newscast. But the tells over the last couple months were so easy to brush off as something else, something unrelated.

It had been a late night of studying that time it took her multiple attempts to grasp her own door handle. Exhaustion can mess with coordination, make her eyes play tricks on her when it appeared her hand had gone through the silly thing. It was easy to dismiss it instead of remembering that Kitty had been part of the study group turn rough housing.

3:38 am.

And so what if after that day at the mall with Jubilee, everything she touched sparked? It had been really dry that week, and static electricity was bound to build up, right?

3:46 am.

Rogue frowns, focusing her eyes on the door, hands falling to her knees. No one's been complaining of lightheadedness, and there certainly hadn't been any comas. She'd have remembered a coma.

So. . . so if all the little incidents now lining up before her memory to be recognized weren't what she's been excusing them for. If those little incidents had been her powers pulling from casual skin to skin contact. . . there'd been no side effects. She hadn't pulled secrets, just occasional, minor spurts of powers. Hardly noticeable.

3:49 am.

Temporary.

Rogue stands, an idea taking shape. Slowly pulling on her running gear, she tests the edges of her theory. The professor had never made any progress with her control issues over her powers. Something about the echoes of absorbed psyches making it difficult for him to penetrate her mind to discover the root of it. Practical testing was too dangerous without some sort of plan going in, and then all that trouble with Jean, and the Cure and. . .progress had just never been made.

But then, her powers had been fully developed by time she reached the Institute right? Rogue bites her lip, sliding ear buds carefully into place. Before she slips out of her rooms, she grabs a pair of faded, worn gloves. By time she's outside, warming up for her run, she has the beginnings of a plan.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Please excuse me while I chuckle to myself for a little bit. Hehehe.**

**Alright, that's over with. Thank Heavenmetal for the ending of this actual feeling like the ending of a chapter instead of just trailing off. Mhmm. **

**Ownership of anything recognisable within this document is kinda like me actually waking up in a reasonable manner - ain't happenin.**

Chapter Eight : Wolverine

Logan is an early riser. If the nightmares don't wake him up in the night, his internal clock will have him out of bed before light anyway. Sometimes he can force himself to stay in bed later, but most days, like today, he's the first one to rise at the mansion. Gives him some precious alone time with a coffee mug before students and colleagues make demands on him.

Not so this morning. He knows she's on her way long before he actually hears the footsteps – and he hears those long before she reaches the kitchen door. All night during his room checks and hall patrol, he's known she's awake. Mulling over the news no doubt. Every time he started to knock on her door, he stopped himself. She'd talk when she was ready.

She doesn't speak when she enters, barely glances at him moving instead to the coffee pot, attention riveted on doctoring a mug full with cream and sugar before she takes a sip. Logan watches, ignores the face she makes for an instant when she first tastes the coffee.

Eventually, the silence is too thick, he breaks it, eyes anywhere but the girl leaning against the sink.

"You're up early." He notices the gloves, thinks better of drawing attention to them.

"Yeah, nightmares."

"You ok?" He's not good at this stuff. Easier to do the bonding emotional conversation when they're sparring, when awkward silences because he doesn't know what to say or how to comfort her lost between kicks and throws.

"I will be." One shoulder rises, falls. She sips her coffee, still not meeting his eyes.

Draining the last of his own mug, Logan considers his options. He can smell her worry, her fear, isn't sure how to make it go away. How he wound up in the roll of mentor or father figure, or whatever the hell this girl thought of him he doesn't understand. Once upon a time, he gave a hitchhiker a ride. Now. . .

"Spill it, Stripes." Clink of empty ceramic against the marble counter accentuates his words.

Startled, she does look at him. He meets her startled expression calmly, crossing arms over his chest, wondering if he's pushing too soon. Watches her eyes fade from spooked to calculating. The expression lasts a beat too long, and Logan shifts.

"Look, you went for your run, your workout. You're pretending everything's the same today as it was yesterday." He taught her to strategize better than that.

"It is the same." She cradles her mug in both hands, slender fingers wrapped around glossy black emblazoned with a red 'X' emblem. "My perception's different, not everything else. Broadcast just made it so's I cain't deny what's been goin on for a while now."

He pours another coffee, letting her continue. The silence isn't tense this time, it's thoughtful. The same as when he quizzes her after a fight, she's thinking, not sulking. He wants a cigar.

"Got th'edges of a plan."

A grunt and a Look tell her to continue. He sips coffee, now slightly burnt tasting, but thick enough to stand a spoon in. The effort it takes for her to keep her voice flat, expressionless is obvious.

"Couldn't find th'on an' off before, an' it was too dangerous to try experimentin'. But I reckon it's been comin' back for a while, and it's real weak like. Might be, if a body were willin, t'wouldn't be so dangerous now."

"Lookin' fer volunteers then?"

There's bound to be something real interesting in the coffee mug, because her eyes are glued to it's contents. She shakes her head, ponytail swaying with the action.

"Cain't rightly ask no one t'put themselves in danger. Bound to be accidents."

There's a warning there. She won't push anyone to help, because she won't willingly put anyone in danger. But she's right – she has an opportunity here to actually take control. She came to him, but won't ask.

Thoughtful, he leans back, weight against the counter. The mansion's starting to wake up, he can hear the first sleepy stirrings of waterpipes and teens battling alarm clocks. In not too long, he has a staff meeting.

"A healing factor can shake off the effects of an accident pretty quick." The decision was a forgone conclusion, on some level, she must have known that. Right? "But you should see Hank before we try anything."

Rogue nods once, crisp, business-like. Tension melts from her body, and in seconds her posture is loose, her movements fluid when she sips her coffee and makes a face at him.

"Logan, this coffee is absolute swill."

He laughs.

Logan manages to be late to the staff meeting, earning a stern look from 'Ro, and a lightening smile from Kurt as he slinks to his seat around the conference table.

"Now that we are all finally present, we can begin." He opens the manila folder in front of him, easily ignoring the pointed look Ororo is trying to send in his direction. "We will start with general business."

"Does this thing say there's a still in the boathouse?"

"Or we can start with student activities, thank you Logan." She's still irritated, but he's more interested in what can't possibly be true. "It says there _was_ a still in the boathouse. We've dismantled it."

"It was well constructed," Logan meets Forge's gaze, decides the Native American is Not Grinning.

Not grinning in the same way that he, himself is not grinning. As in, two men secure in the knowledge that an outward sign of amusement will result in lightning from above. While not adverse to an occasional glass of wine herself, the headmistress has uncompromising views on the student body and alcohol.

"Whoever put it together knew what they were doing, and not from some internet print out. Problem is, we don't know who." Forge is decidedly better at the not grinning than he expected.

Logan has a suspicion; after all, there aren't too many inhabitants from moonshine country.

"I could take a sniff around after the meetin."

"I would appreciate that, Logan. Can we now _please_ discuss how we will prepare to handle the fallout from last night's newscast?"

Crossing his arms, Logan sits back in his chair, feeling in some small way as though he's won. She takes on different personalities depending on what capacity she's trying to fill, and the harried, proper headmistress isn't one of his favourites. By needling her – just a bit – at the beginning of each meeting, he manages to turn her back into 'Ro.

"Don't see what there is to discuss. We take in mutant kids with no where else to go, that gonna change?" Far as he's concerned, the only fallout worth considering has already been decided. Marie's on his team, soon as she feels ready.

"Imbecile." That one's as cold as her name. "Enrollment for the fall term is already rising, and it's been less than twenty-four hours."

"Fraulin Frost, zat seems harsh. Herr Logan has a point, ve do what we always do." Wagner's been in the country long enough now that his accent's been softening. But how many times did he have to insist that 'Logan' was fine? Every time the German-born mutant referred to him as 'Herr' Logan tastes gunpowder. "This iz a safe place for mutants, of any type. Is that supposed to change because now some of them may have tried a different path?"

"Indeed – our own, excuse me Logan, Rogue has resided with us for months."

"Where else was she supposed to go, furball?"

"Precisely my point. Perhaps she can be an example to any of the newer students who may have made similar choices." Hank adjusts his glasses, peering at each of the people around the table before continuing. "The estate Xavier left for the continued workings of this school are substantial. Young Warren's management of the funds has been brilliant. I see no reason for us to need worry about being able to take in the increased number of students Ororo has estimated here."

Frost's shaking her head, long nails tapping impatiently against the table.

"Men. It's not whether we can afford them, where are we supposed to put them?" An elegant gesture of a white gloved hand clearly indicates the entire property. "We've already got people rooming together, and still nearly out of space. Pup tents in the front yard?"

"Dormitories." Attention swings to Forge, silent until now, pen moving across the back of 'Ro's careful printouts. "We can build dormitories this summer. Boy's Hall, Girl's Hall. Senior students – members of the team – and staff here in the mansion."

Logan lets the argument drone on without him. He still wants a cigar. There's something none of them are thinking about, in all their detail oriented fate of the school talk. Something that should have come to mind, and he can't quite. . .

"Hey, anyone figure what'll happen to ol'Mags if this thing wears off?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I will try really hard to write another Homework chapter before school devours me. At least give y'all the fight scene. That said. . .I go to register for classes today. Yay me. **

**Bologna, yes, that is exactly what I was chuckling about. I look forward to those love letters, dear. *grins* **

**If I had anysort of actual ownership and therefore royalties to anything Marvel, I wouldn't have to put my tuition on a credit card, would I?**

Chapter Nine: Angel

In the year since he walked – alright, flew - away from his father, Warren Worthington III has seen a lot of changes in his life. Some things are the same. He still lives in a mansion, though instead of 'family home' where he now resides doubles as a supposed prestigious boarding school with a penchant for handing out scholarships.

He still wears the long camel duster in public, no matter the weather. Once, it was to hide his status as his family's dirty little secret, genetic mutation that gave him the long white feathered wings sprouting from his back. Now, it's to move inconspicuously through the mall where he's supposed to be keeping an eye on a horde of teenagers barely younger than himself. At least the jacket can be shrugged off as a fashion statement, and judging by the tall man wearing a brown leather version and hangover sunglasses, it's a trend that might be catching on.

Readjusts in his seat at the food court, plastic chair not built for those wings. If he cranes his neck, he can see two of the girls on the other side, too many shopping bags between them. Kitty and Jubilee – the way they're laughing can't bode well for peace back at the mansion. No idea where the rest of them are, but everyone's supposed to meet here in another hour. His attention is caught by a conversation passing by.

"I don't see why they can't force them to take another dose – you know, like booster shots?"

"There was a piece on Good Morning America that said it might be lethal if taken in succession."

He pushes away his tray, appetite gone. Of course everyone's talking about it. His father's brilliant plan, life's work, failing.

"You look sad, mein freund." The speaker pulls out a chair opposite him, and Warren has to do a mental double take before he remembers. "Need to talk about it? A burden shared is a burden halved."

The man now sitting with him looks about as normal as anyone. Sharp blue eyes, curly black hair, almost too pale skin, striking but in a make ladies' heads turn way. It's a far cry from how the man normally appears.

"Don't know Kurt, I mean," Warren looks around, trying to indicate not only the people in the mall, but the population outside of it as well. "Can't help but feel it's all my fault."

"Never! The kids want to shop because of the outrageous sales. Summer's coming on and everyone's changing their stock. . ." Exaggerated wink before he shakes his head. "Unless you mean the words on everyone's lips. . .?"

"Yeah. Worthington Pharmaceuticals' Wonder Drug." Bitter twist to cupid lips. "Bad enough they had to go and weaponize it – but now. . ."

"Ja, there is some outcry right now. Perhaps, though, it is for the best." Kurt snatches a french fry from Warren's forgotten lunch, cuff moving with the action to reveal what appears to be a diving watch. He knows, however, that it's a genuine Forge-tinkered piece of equipment, responsible for his friend's apparent lack of blue skin. "More of us are born every day. Perhaps we are not a condition that needs to be 'fixed'."

"You think I don't agree?" Warren shakes his head. "I broke a window rather than be the first subject – still haven't fixed my relationship with my father over that."

Alright, crashed through a window at the top of a skyscraper at the last possible moment. Yes, he'd managed to save his father from falling to his death at Alcatraz, but somehow the old man still couldn't let go of his betrayal by not shedding the wings. Warren's pretty sure a shrink could find a 'daddy was never proud of me for me' line in there somewhere, but he prefers not to think of it that way. Doesn't seem . . . manly.

"Fifty years ago, in this country, it was still illegal in some places for people to marry or even drink at the same fountains as others." Image inducer or not, the way Kurt moves his hands still indicates their tridactyl nature. "I like to think that with God's grace, the furor over blue skin, instead of dark or light, will work towards the same conclusion."

"We can hope."

Something catches his eye then, and Warren points to the other side of the food court, a leather goods store with a large selection of gloves. Rogue emerges, alone, with several bags in her hand. He can't make out her expression from this distance, but he clearly remembers her joy a year ago when she ceremoniously set fire to her large collection of gloves. To restock them now. . .

"What about people like her? Took the cure voluntarily, hoping for some chance at normal?" Tired hand through his hair, his other pushing the French fries closer to his friend. "I just think that maybe they'd have been better off if they hadn't been given the false hope. Maybe, if I hadn't grown these things," Jerk of a thumb towards his back, "My father never would have done what he did, and a lot of people would have been saved some grief."

"Bah! My country spawned _Hitler_, should the rest of us carry that guilt?" Derisive shake of his head, "We also gave birth to Bach, Beethoven, The Brothers Grimm." Wraggles his eyebrows. "Claudia Schiffer, decent beer. One man's actions do not taint the entire family, the nation. Your father made his own decisions, not yours."

"Maybe." A sigh and he looks around the food court. "You know, the kids should be coming around about now, but I don't see anyone."

"Ich dachte, I thought we were meeting at ze van?"

"Could have sworn I said food court. . ." Frowning, Warren stands.

"Ja, but Kätzchen and Jubilee did not want to appear like a school field trip, with so many of us at once." Both men head towards the doors, seeking the black van they'd arrived in. "You agreed on the condition –"

"That they leave the stereo alone. That's right." For the most part, what a teenaged girl considered decent in terms of music was about to drive the rest of the group insane.

The group huddled around the vehicle in the parking lot doesn't look right. It takes a few moments before either men register it's because of extra bodies. The shouting can be ignored – any time more than three of the mansion's kids are together there's shouting of some kind – until one of the girls screams.

Yellow eyes meet blue for an instant, Warren's coat hitting the ground seconds before Kurt, inducer off, disappears in a _bamf_ of sulfur smoke. Three running steps, and Angel spreads his wings, ready to fly in order to reach the kids that much faster.

He doesn't make it. The same instant his feet leave the ground, his back is incased in the type of searing pain that draws his limbs – wings and all – inwards. Rolling when he hits asphalt, he manages a glimpse of black hair and metal before the pain comes again. The third time, it's followed by binding and a sense of _movement._

"Target acquired. Repeat, we have the bird. Grab who you can and get back to base, now."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Am **_**not**_** an action writer. But, hey, look, Remy and Rogue on the same page – finally! Yay? **

**I live in Mississippi – and there's **_**snow**_**. Snow that wasn't gone by noon. Snow that has now lasted three days. I haven't seen that since I left Canada, folks. **

**Maybe my ownership papers haven't arrived because the mail's not running what with the icy roads and all? Yeah, that's it.**

Chapter Ten: Gambit

Technically, if one were to avoid traffic, obey posted speed limits, and take the occasional break to stave off fatigue, one can conceivably drive from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Westchester, New York in just over twenty hours. Twenty-one hours and eight minutes, according to mapquest.

In spite of the time he spent bent over his laptop the night before, Remy Lebeau pulls into town early the following afternoon. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't go near a mall. Why bother with Kay's Jewelry when a little more driving could have him in the heart of the country's biggest Diamond District? But the mall's just off the interstate, his bike's running hot from how hard he's pushed it, and Starbucks serves halfway decent coffee.

It's a trifecta he can't ignore.

Besides, he needs time to decide exactly how to approach Logan. They've never been friends, exactly. Not the type of acquaintance who'll just look the other up and drop in because, hey, I happen to be in the neighbourhood. No, in the years since that damn island, they've crossed paths because of work. Drinking later, sure, but work.

True, there was someone else up at that school who would probably welcome him in with open arms, but it's been even longer since he's seen her. An occasional 'are you alive' phone call was about all they've managed since she left. To impose on the life she's built, drag her into this mess. . .

Logan's a better bet. This mess is the type of thing Logan _does_. Or did. 'Phys Ed Teacher' at a _school_, mutant students or not, still sounded bizarre. _She_ belongs in a school, cultured, refined, he shouldn't be anywhere near a group of children that young.

Then again – over the years they've known each other, Remy's noticed the man's penchant for picking up strays: down on their luck girls who benefit from an angry beserking force of nature watching their backs for a few months. Maybe this whole school thing was just a _pack_ instead of an individual. By the list of scholarship awardees in attendance, it looked as though most of the kids don't have anywhere else to go.

"Order up, handsome." Barista's cute, in a bubblegum sort of way: soft and sweet. Smile that borders on lascivious while he pays. Pretends he doesn't notice the phone number scrawled on the disposable cup in pink ink.

"Merci, petite."

No, driving up to the school with only the edges of the situation lacked _style._

Thoughtful, he sips his coffee. Walking back to the parking lot, where his bike waits, he considers a motel to catch a few hours sleep before tackling his dilemma, but he isn't sure how much time he has. Prehistoric cat-man didn't exactly give a detailed timeline, but he's pretty sure it's going down _now. _Or at least starting.

A girl in front of him stops, adjusting gloves and sleeves before pushing through the glass doors. In this weather, the fashion statement doesn't make sense to Remy. Takes a moment to admire the way she fills out her jeans, peering over the tops of his sunglasses. Smiling into his cup, he starts to move around her, but a glimpse of her profile makes him change direction.

Platinum streaks intermingled with auburn hair. Suddenly, the gloves make sense, and hasn't he always been lucky?

Dropping back, he starts to trail her at a safe distance. Parking lot's not nearly as crowded as the inside, but somehow louder with teenagers screaming.

Screaming?

Fingers loosen from the warm paper cup. Other end of the parking lot is a battle – looks like four teens against two attackers, but the screaming is coming from the small group of younger kids. Old enough to be mall rats, apparently not trained to defend themselves.

Even more interesting are the men just exiting the mall, dark and light, take in the fight and start moving. The blue one's gone in a cloud of smoke, the winged one takes off only to be stopped by an energy weapon wielded by the kind of guy Remy knows by reputation.

"Angel!" Even in a shout, the girl's voice is magnolias. She doesn't really expect to take on energy weapon and mechanical armor does she?

Apparently so.

Coffee cup splatters to the ground. Saving Logan's latest stray? Now that's _style_.

Moving forward to gather momentum before launching upwards, landing to her right and taking her down. He's just in time for both of them to roll out of the way of a blast from Mr My Guns Are Compensating as he disappears with a flash, bound angel in tow.

"Desole, cherie, but he don' look de type f'r y't'be messin' wit' all alone."

"Where'd he take 'em?" Girl's on her feet as smoothly as he, dropping immediately into a fighting stance. Oops, that's not according to script.

"Dunno – but maybe c'n help y'figure it out if-" The kick almost takes him by surprise, but he manages a half turn, catching her knee in the process, pulling it tight to his side.

"Where'd y'all's friend take my teammate?" She doesn't have the leverage to follow through with the punch from the other side, but tries to land it anyway. Easy enough to intercept her fist, pushing up and out to redirect the blow as he steps into her space.

"If y'wanted t'be closer, river rat, y'just had t'ask." Aren't innocent little girls supposed to be _thankful_ when a hero comes to save them from certain injury? This southern belle's more vinegar than honey.

"Sorry, Mister, but Ah ain't got no daddy fixation." She reclaims her leg with a jerk, using his grip on her wrist as leverage to move into a throw. He hits brick with a sharp exhalation of breath, her hand firmly planted in the center of his chest. "Pervert."

"T'ink we got a miscommunication, chere." Not just a stray then, Logan's actually trained this one. Not reassuring. Raises his hands, palms out. "We got a friend in common, petite, an' i'ain' de metal man who took y'flyboy."

"Ain' likely, _swamp rat_." Those lips would be much better suited to more pleasurable activities than the ugly snarl she's wearing.

"So y'don'know a cranky canadien 'vec certain. . ." Gloved fingertips across her knuckles, "Talents?"

Her other fist comes up, and he spreads his hands once again. Her expression is too carefully blank not to have caught his meaning.

"He de best dere is at what he does, chere." And how many times has he heard that line muttered into the bottom of a beer mug?

"But what he do ain't nice." Green eyes narrow, calculating. "Lotsa folk know Logan, don't mean he knows them none."

"Still got issues wit'de memory?" The kids at the other end of the parking lot appear to be holding well. Logan as a teacher is looking less mistake of the decade and more plausible if the kids are supposed to fight like that. Lowers his voice to the tone that coerces, meeting her startling green eyes. "Regardes, fille, got some information 'bout somethin' up his alley goin' down. Mi'even involve what's goin' on _now_, but don't 'xactly have time t'convince y'of m'good nature. Y'got a way o'getting' a hold of him?"

"Don't rank a communicator no-more," Nods as if he understands what she's talking about while she reaches into a back pocket. He can feel her change in opinion, reluctant agreement. "But he usually picks up when it's my number."

"Bein, tell 'im Gambit's bringin y'home, an' dis one'll get his bike." Mutant school or mutant training ground? Battle sounds are winding down, more than one car alarm rising instead.

"Never said nuthin 'bout lettin' ya outta my sight." But her eyes are glued to her phone, texting.

"Dieu, woman, c'est juste la bas!" His bike _isn't_ more than a few feet away. Shaking his head and not waiting for a response, he heads for it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: So. . . my pipes exploded at two o'clock this morning. Had to turn off the water and now we're waiting for things to thaw enough to turn the water back on. Whee.**

**Rights, royalties, ownership and the like continue to be missing. Might try to do something about that one of these days, but until then, this is for entertainment value only.**

**Although, judging by the fact that 'Homework' gets about a thousand hits days I post chapters to this, and 'Melding' gets only about three hundred, I'm questioning whether anyone other than myself receives entertainment. Hmm. Ah well, I'm enjoying writing this one. So there, hah.**

Uhg. Where'd these guys come from anyway? Disturbing a totally successful shopping trip, _so_ not cool. To the left, Bobby's set up a pretty good looking ice dome, and Kitty's busy phasing the not yet on the team kids into it.

"Got one!" The arms suddenly wrapped around Jubilee in a bear hug have this really weird kinda coating on them. More importantly, the arms pin her own _above_ the elbow, which, yeah, sucks, but also? Stupid on the captor's part. Sharp jerk of her head forward and the red-tinted glasses perched in her hair fall over her eyes.

"Doesn't that just call for a celebration?" She has just enough movement to raise her hands over her shoulders, which is just enough movement to fill her would be captor's face with miniscule, explosive lights.

"My eyes!"

Predictably he lets go, and Jubilee dives forward, effortlessly flowing into a somersault that brings her back to her feet.

"Maybe we don't need you in one piece – sure bossman won't be too upset if you're. . . pierced." Creepy-Man starts to spin, and she's thinking some sort of super speed because he's barely a blur. Doesn't have time to react when that icky coating starts to break off, flying at her because -

Icewall.

"Thanks Bobby!"

"Code names, Jubilee."

"What_ever_." More important is the fact that Kurt's here – battling with an asian woman who's _gotta_ be on steroids – but Warren's no where to be seen. "Anyone call home? Back up would be nice."

The ice dome's sporting sharpened little bits of . . . something, and the posterboy for Stranger Danger's still spinning, more of the projectiles piercing both her protective wall and the dome. Jubilee's not sure how long ice can stand up to the assault, but Kitty's coming up out of the ground beside her.

"Yeah – tried to anyway. Looks like they've got some sort of signal jammer. Can't get 'em on the cell or the communicators."

The ice wall shatters, but Kit's got her arm and the rain of _things_ pass harmlessly through both girls.

"Iceman – the dome!" Before Kitty's running and Jubilee's trying to hide behind a car.

"Plan, plan, need a plan, any plan. . ." Where the hell's Rogue anyway? The southerner's more tactician, powers or not. Girl's got a gift when it comes to using other people's powers all seamless and together – like. Which, y'know, _completely_ makes sense, right?

Creeping on hands and knees, Jubilee peers around a beat up bumper. Steroid-Lady's got Nightcrawler, pushes him off and brings her hands together with a sharp clap that makes the very air shimmer and throws her teammate to the ground in a heap. Their only adult is down, which really? Not good. Not good at all if they can't call home.

"Plan, plan . . .yes, plan!" She's a bona fide X-Man isn't she? Keeping low, she weaves between parked cars, close enough to the Chyna-wannabe she only needs a distraction to grab her teammate. "Colossus, give 'Crawler's partner a dance, won't ya?"

A series of more concentrated than normal _pafs_ – and the force of her multi coloured lights actually pushes the woman back into the metal-skinned Russian's incoming fist.

"Snatchin' the X-kids? _So_ two years ago. Been there, done that, got the souvenir 'cuffs."

Kurt's breathing, but his eyes are closed and he's not responding when she tries to shake him. Damn, damn and double damn. 'Porting would be totally useful about now. Can't remember a single thing from those first aid classes, isn't she not supposed to move him? In case of internal injuries or something?

Colossus crashes into a car way to close for comfort, obnoxious alarm starting immediately.

"C'mon Blue, not a safe spot for a nap." Moving might jar something inside, but leaving him here when 'riod lady's claps make cars go all crumpled? Gotta be worse.

"Jubilee! Think you can drive?" Hears Bobby's shout as she hooks her hands under the older man's armpits and starts to drag.

"Well, _duh_!"

"Get Nightcrawler to the van, Shadowcat'll explain."

Moving Kurt suddenly becomes easier as a bed of ice forms beneath him. A look over her shoulder confirms that a second, narrow layer is forming along the ground in a trail from her position to the black van they arrived in.

"Roger, Captain!"

At least _someone's_ got what might be a real plan. Good.

"You're _so_ gonna owe me a gymnastics routine when you wake up." She mutters, sliding Kurt along the trail while still managing to avoid spin-top's projectiles.

The van's coated in another layer of ice, but Kitty pokes her head and arms out just as she arrives. One hand on her shoulder, another on Nightcrawler, and all three of them are in the van. The kids are all here too – huddled in the back seat.

Kitty maneuvers the unconscious one to a bench seat, kneeling on the floor beside him while she checks him over. Jubilee scrambles into the driver's seat, digging the extra keys out of the glove box.

"So. . . what's the idea?" As she starts the engine. Windshield's visibility is low, ice creating a fun house mirror effect. She jabs at buttons, trying to find the defrost.

"Food court entrance – that's where Rogue is, and I _think_ she said Angel's down." Kitty tosses her cell phone to one of the kids in the back. "Not enough signal for a call, but texts are coming through. Siryn, start texting any of the senior team members, alright? SOS."

The girl nods, silent, and the kids with cellphones all start obeying Kitty's orders.

"What about Iceman and Colossus?"

"Iceman's frozen the spinning-shrapnel guy, and off to help Colossus disengage. They'll use an ice slide to catch up with us." A few minutes pause while the small dancer rummages in an open first aid kit and Jubilee takes a hard left, trying to remember which entrance is the food court. "Easy, Jubes!"

"Can't see through this ice!" But it's starting to melt, and Jubilee starts the wipers, jabbing at the wiper fluid button to try and speed the process. "Open the side door, I see Rogue!"

Slams to a stop with screeching breaks, throwing everyone inside forward with a muttered curse from Kitty.

"That ice is our shield – and I said _easy_! Kurt might really be hurt."

Rogue's astride a super cool looking bike, arms around the waist of the hottest piece of man-flesh Jubilee's seen in a _long_ time. Which is saying something when she believes part of the x-gene's gotta be carrying extra sexy judging by the mansion's populace.

"Who's your friend?" But the green eyed girl ignores the question.

"Y'all go on – t'the mansion. There's cell signal back here – Beast's got the medbay set up for Kurt, an' this one's got 'telligence fer Logan, ain't lettin' him outta my sight."

The van shakes, causing the kids in the back to shriek before Poitr – no metal skin means no code name, right? – Climbs into the van.

"They are gone, as though they were never here."

Bobby's – no, Iceman, when he's still iced up – right behind him.

"Where's Angel?"

"Took 'em." Rogue tosses hair back from her face. "Ge'on outta'hehn, we're right behind y'all."

Pretty sure Iceman objects to that, but Rogue's stranger tosses a careless grin in Jubilee's direction and revs his bike. The noise is loud enough to swallow whatever reasoning is voiced.

Whooboy. This is gonna be _real_ interesting.


End file.
